


Utopia

by Smiley5494



Series: English Assignments [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Death, Dystopia, English assignment, Minor Character Death, Modern Assassins, POV First Person, but still, labelled as a utopia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24265213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smiley5494/pseuds/Smiley5494
Series: English Assignments [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671247
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Utopia

I can hear the streets come alive with noise. The smell of spices reaches my nose as I turn my head to face the main street. People go about their daily lives as I watch on sadly. They have no idea what is happening underneath their noses. They call this perfect, pristine place ‘Utopia’ without a second thought.

My eyes find my target and his tracker buzzes in my hand.

He’s close by.

This man has just had the best day of his life, unknown to him, he’s dying. It’s incurable. That’s where I come in. My job is to ‘help’ him before he shows symptoms; before he even knows he’s sick. The rush of the city is just background noise as I aim carefully. People of all sexualities, races, and genders wander the street, chatting loudly. No-one sees me, no-one even turns my way.

He walks down the alleyway that is the shortcut between his house and the main street. My people are there waiting. He doesn’t know but he’s walked straight into my sights.

I pull the trigger; exhale.

I don’t look back. I know he’s dead, I don’t miss. My people surround his body, white among the dark—like lightning in thunderclouds—before vanishing. His family knows what happened; after all, we’re the only ones with a gun. His tracker goes dead in my hand—my people have him.

They call us doctors, medics. I call us manipulators, murderers. They think we’re amazing, miracle workers. Little do they know, but we’re poisoning their minds slowly, teaching them that illnesses are eradicated; that our only job is to know when a person’s time is up, or a new life is beginning.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. Sickness hasn’t been eradicated, we’ve just gotten better at detecting and healing people. They’re correct in the fact the government does assign a death-date to every living person; their eightieth birthday. If that person doesn’t get incurably sick before their death-date they die on their birthday.

That person you bumped into on the street? That was a doctor taking a blood sample. You don’t notice them because that’s what they were trained for, that’s what they’re best at.

If a doctor detects an illness or an ‘error’ as they call it, they pump medicine into the air as you sleep. They put the cure into your food as you eat. If it’s incurable, they give your tracking device to me and I take you out before you show symptoms—before you even know you're dying. They kill you after the best day of your life.

It occurs to me as I enter my apartment and re-lock my door, that I might’ve killed someone who was curable but to cure them would mean that they showed symptoms—that they realise the medical profession isn’t perfect. That thought makes me shudder but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

I make a promise to myself to ask questions next time I get a job, to ask what the target is dying from, and why they can’t heal them—after all, with the recent medical breakthroughs in 2048 there shouldn’t be anything that they can’t heal.

It takes all of five hours for my self-promise to be tested. My watch buzzes and static fills the earpiece I wear for work reasons.

“We need you.” My boss says and hangs up. I don’t even get a word in. Sighing, I make my way to the office where most of the secretive work happens. I press the button to call for the lift—all the while composing questions in my mind to ask. Once the old lift shudders to a halt, I enter, my mind whirling. Looking to make sure no-one is around I press the last button, level sub-4. A panel next to the buttons slides away to reveal a fingerprint scanner.

“State name and place finger on the panel.” A monotonous voice drones.

I say my name and press my finger to the panel and the lift starts it’s shuddering way down. When the ‘ding’ announces that I’ve arrived, the doors struggle open and I exit.

Level sub-4 is very different from the ancient building preserved as a memorial from the Equality War in 2019. Inside the upper floors cracked pillars, rubble and dusty artefacts are seen in every room from when this building used to be a museum built in 1998 and reinforced 2010. The building itself is made out of old sandstone and steel with a large—still working—clocktower on the front. A plaque with the names of those instrumental to the war is nailed to the door.  
Level sub-4 is different in that the walls, floors, and ceilings are in pristine condition. Like all new buildings made it is coated in a hard plastic-like, eco-friendly material that repels dust and dirt, making buildings last longer and easier to clean. Super-fast computers make calculations and check data in seconds, making things faster and more efficient in rooms along the corridor. Workers in white coats make their way past me—the only one dressed in anything but white—barking orders into tiny earpieces—nearly invisible to those who aren’t expecting it—and checking data on slim smartwatches.

Even though I find the medical business horrific in that they don’t give a choice to those who are sick, I don’t see why anyone would hate Utopia. Though some do. There are some whose family members have been killed, who realise what it means to be assigned a death-date—to be given a day where you will not survive. Those are the ones who rebel, who go underground and try to find us. Who try to reveal us as the monsters we are.


End file.
